


Summer Nights

by Tseecka



Series: DARP Kisses [7]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Kisses Meme, Memories, alternate past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2014-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-12 05:08:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2096913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tseecka/pseuds/Tseecka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not the first time the King has met the Champion.</p><p>---</p><p>For a Tumblr RP Kissing Meme, Prompt: "Cheek Kiss"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Summer Nights

It’s as though there is a ghost standing before him. 

A ghost born from his own memories, the memories of summer nights and sweet wine, sneaking away from his Templar patrol to meet the dark-haired girl in the field outside the town. A bottle, passed from hand to hand; laughter in the night air, tossing rocks into tall grain grass, pointing out shapes in the stars in the skies. 

The Templars had taken two new recruits with them to Lothering, wanting to answer to reports of mage activity—apostate activity—in the town. Alistair hadn’t been terribly interested in the proceedings, his own thoughts on mages carefully, guardedly liberal, his distaste for the raucous jokes of the older Templars and his fellow green-horn quietly hidden. But it had been a trip, a journey, an escape from the day-to-day drudgery, and he thought that if he could at least be there to provide a still-stern but friendly face to whatever poor soul—man, woman, or child—the Templars were there for, it would be a job well done. 

He hadn’t expected, hadn’t looked for, anything more; but more had found him, in the shape of a young woman not much younger than himself, with dark hair and curved, smiling lips, a kind nature frequently and happily usurped by biting wit and clever jests. As the days wore on, with no sign of the apostate, Alistair found himself sneaking away from the camp more nights than not, sitting with her in the open fields with bottles of wine snatched from the Inn, passing time side-by-side with their little fingers overlapping. 

He still remembers the pain he had felt at their parting, the sad smile she’d given him that he hadn’t quite understood as she told him, “We were doomed from the start,” her refusal to ever give him more than her given name. He’d kissed the back of her hand, as knights were required to do for ladies, and pressed a white flower into her palm as he’d pleaded for her to remember him. 

He had never heard from her again; and in a few too-short years, he was a Warden, and Lothering was a smouldering ruin. 

Yet there was no mistaking the woman that stood before him now, her hair mussed from battle, eyes burning with fire, old dried blood spattering her clothes, staff on her back. He thought, now, that perhaps he understood what she’d meant all those years ago. 

He greets her formally, brushing a kiss to her cheek in the Orlesian fashion, and doesn’t think she recognizes him. 


End file.
